


whoever lives in love

by weatheredlaw



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Journeying Through Hell, M/M, Memory Loss, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 10:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: “I found you in Hell,” he said. “You don’t think I could find you in London?”





	whoever lives in love

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is based on the book/movie _what dreams may come_. don't read the book it's not that great, but definitely watch the movie.

_And if the clouds are gathering, it's just to point the way   
To an afternoon I spent with you when it rained all day_

* * *

Every day they spent together, Aziraphale felt further from Heaven.

This, he tried to explain, wasn’t a _bad_ thing. The notion made Crowley more than a little nervous, but Aziraphale preferred his life the way it had been going. He liked living in the cottage. He liked living with Crowley. He liked being _in love._ And if all those things meant that, sometimes, he could not quite hear the heavenly host, that was fine. That was _just_ fine.

“Don’t you feel a bit lost without it?” Crowley wondered.

“No,” Aziraphale said. “Because I’m never lost when I’m with you.”

Crowley smiled and stretched out in their bed, looking smug. “Look at you,” he said. “Little bit of the devil in you, isn’t there?”

Aziraphale rolled over and put a hand possessively over Crowley’s heart. “I certainly wouldn’t mind it if there _were_,” he said.

The rest of the night was lost, after that.

* * *

They were _frightfully_ in love. The force and immensity of Aziraphale’s own feelings sometimes stunned him. He would simply be sitting at their table in the garden, look up from his book, and be struck. And it wasn’t that Crowley would be doing anything special, or anything particularly endearing. Just trimming things here and there, planting bulbs before winter. Sometimes he was sitting on the other side of the table, sunning himself.

Aziraphale’s heart swelled at the sight of him, got caught in his throat and couldn’t be brought down. Every time, exactly the same. Like a Pavlovian response he _wanted_ to succumb to.

“You’re staring,” Crowley said.

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered. “I certainly am.”

They made love wherever they wanted — sometimes there in the garden, around the side where no one could see; sometimes in the kitchen, pressed against the counter, aching for one another.

In their bed, some nights and some afternoons, Aziraphale liked it best when they were both on their knees, leaning into one another, Crowley’s back against his chest as he thrust into him, stroked his cock and combed his fingers through his hair.

“Come for me,” he said, and Crowley did, every time, a moan and a cry wrenched from him as he pulsed in Aziraphale’s hand, come striping his chest and his body wrecked and heaving. Aziraphale was never long after him, spilling inside with a groan, clutching Crowley to him with desperate arms. _This_ was theirs. This life belonged to them. They had earned it, after so many years of doing as they were told, of doing what they didn’t want.

They belonged _to each other._ No one else.

No one else.

* * *

“You won’t be long?” Crowley asked. He was wrist-deep in wet earth, having decided today was a good day to plant their new roses.

“Not more than an hour.” Aziraphale bent low and kissed his temple. He wanted to walk into town, stop at the bakery and the little bookshop, then maybe attend an afternoon service at the church on the corner. It was good to check in, sometimes.

Crowley had no desire to do any of it, and he was having a time with the roses, cursing the container they’d come in. “Right,” he said. “See you, then.” He reached out just as Aziraphale was going, clasped their hands together and left streak of wet dirt on Aziraphale’s palm. “Something to remember me by,” he said, grinning.

“An _hour_,” Aziraphale reminded him, and left.

* * *

The feeling hit him in the bookshop, a hot iron to his heart. It burned through him with so much intensity, he didn’t bother to see who was around before he transported himself back to the cottage.

_Crowley._

“Crowley!” Aziraphale stormed through the house, opening every door, practically flying up the stairs to their room. He tore off the bedsheets, he threw open the closet doors, he nearly fell out the window, calling and calling. “_Crowley!_”

Nothing.

_Nothing._

_Where are you_, he thought. _Love, where are you?_

The feeling was absence, stark and fierce. He went into the garden, and the place where Crowley had been digging was empty, just his tools and the rose bush, toppled to its side, its roots bending. Aziraphale bent down to fix it. The thorns sunk into his palms, and he pulled away.

“Crowley,” he said, one last time. As if that might do it.

But Crowley was gone. Aziraphale was alone. There was a dull ache in his chest that had started growing in the bookshop.

It was everywhere, now. And he wasn’t sure what to do.

* * *

“I’d like to speak to Michael.”

“Absolutely not.”

Aziraphale had not come to heaven since before Armageddon. His presence was less than welcome. As far as they knew, he’d stepped into hellfire, and lived. There wasn’t an angel upstairs who didn’t know his name, or what he’d done. They also all knew, apparently, that he’d shacked up with a demon in the South Downs. Whispers followed him as he stalked through the halls looking for someone to give him answers.

Michael was in her office. The principality that guarded her door had caved after another ten seconds of prolonged eye contact. She didn’t look pleased with either of them.

“Aziraphale,” she said, honey-sweet. “What a lovely surprise.”

“You have contacts downstairs,” Aziraphale said.

“I had _a_ contact. Your friend killed him.” She leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “What’s this about?”

“Crowley is gone.”

Michael raised a brow. “How tragic.”

“He’s been taken to Hell, I’m sure of it.”

She sighed. “Well he _is_ a demon, Aziraphale. Perhaps he left of his own accord.”

“_Tell me_ where he is. I’ll go and get him myself.”

“That’s a suicide mission,” she said, standing now. “And you can’t just waltz into Hell. They’ll destroy you.”

“Then help me get there.”

She threw her head back. “Ha! After the stunt you pulled? Please, you’re _lucky_ you’re even allowed to be here.” She narrowed her eyes. “If it were up to me, we’d have clipped your wings, _principality._ Your presence here is shameful. Return to Earth before I tell Her that you—”

She stopped. They both froze.

When the Almighty spoke — spoke _directly_ — it was like...like nothing you could imagine. She was _light_ and She was _air_ and She was a _booming voice_ that only you could hear. She spoke so rarely, not even an Archangel could claim to have heard Her voice in the last century.

She spoke only one word, and it rattled between the two of them, so clearly.

_Assist._

Michael collapsed into her chair. “_Yes, Lord._”

Aziraphale’s essence _thrummed_ under his skin.

* * *

“We’re arranging a trade. Beelzebub has agreed that Crowley may leave Hell, under the condition that some of their assets we’ve imprisoned here be released.” Michael made a few checks of the elevator system. “This protects you,” she added, and handed him a coin. Aziraphale looked at it — on one side, an angel. On the other, the Devil. “It’s imbued with Her protection,” Michael added.

“...Right.” Aziraphale slipped it into his pocket.

Michael turned to him. “They’re being difficult. You won’t get any help finding him down there, and you really shouldn’t stay long. The deeper you go, the further you get from Her. That’s why the coin is important. But it can’t protect you forever. Stay too long, Aziraphale, and you could lose yourself.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Michael made a face. “Hell is hard on an angel. The longer you’re there, the less connected with the host you are. You’ll forget things. Important things. Yourself, where you come from, years past.” She sighed. “Stay _too long_, and you could even forget..._him._” She rolled her eyes. “Can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Aziraphale turned to the elevator. He didn’t want to think about that. About what going as far as he was really meant. Of course he believed he’d find him, that he’d sense Crowley straight away and they could go _home._ Back to the cottage, back to their bed, back to their garden.

“It’s ready for you,” Michael said.

Aziraphale nodded and stepped inside. He slipped his hand in his pocket, gripping the coin.

Michael said nothing as she pressed the button to close the doors, and the elevator began the long descent down.

* * *

For all the stories of hellfire and brimstone, one might expect Hell to be hot, all the way down.

It wasn’t. When the doors opened, Aziraphale was hit with a blast of cold, wet air. It was a stench and a chill he’d tried to forget since his last visit, but it struck him and nearly knocked him to his back.

Demons snapped and snarled around him, moving piles of paperwork from one desk to another, stamping documents or dropping them into a horrid sounding shredder. The lights flickered overhead. Aziraphale swallowed and kept going.

Crowley was here. He had no idea why, no clue who would take him, but —

_“No one can hold a grudge like a demon,” Crowley muttered. He’d tasked himself with counting the freckles on Aziraphale’s shoulders. There weren’t many. _

_“They were terrified of me, when I left.”_

_“We embarrassed them,” Crowley said. “Heaven might just pretend you don’t exist, but demons.” He sighed. “Demons remember everything.” _

Ah. So this was _his_ fault. Crowley would be cross with him if he knew. Aziraphale kept moving. The coin was doing its job. No one even looked his way, except for a handful of higher ranking lords who saw him and nodded.

Yet another Arrangement. Aziraphale didn’t know how many demons were being freed from Heaven to allow him passage through these halls. And he didn’t care.

Crowley had to be here. He had to be somewhere. Aziraphale could sense _something_ familiar, something that reached out to him. Casting its siren call through the entire place.

A search of the first floor revealed nothing. He found the stairs and began to descend further.

* * *

Things were getting warmer. The walls were a terrible grey color, streaked with what looked like blood. Down here, demons shouted and snarled words Aziraphale didn’t understand, some sort of infernal language. Every so often they looked his way, but did nothing. It was doubtful anyone even knew why he was there. Here he could feel human souls, marching toward eternal torment. His hands itched to save them, to spare them whatever this was.

_“You know, Hell’s really for the absolute worst of them.” Crowley carded his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “People don’t just go for the little things. They go for the terrible things.” _

_“Like what?”_

_“Murder, angel. And even then, She forgives.” _

_“You don’t seem especially put out by that.” _

_Crowley shrugged. “Maybe I’ve had a bit too much angel in me lately,” he said, waggling his brow. “Actually I never was much concerned with it. People, you know, they don’t need much help to do the worst things.”_

_“They’ve never needed much help to do the _best_ things either,” Aziraphale murmured. _

_Crowley laughed. “So strange, aren’t they?”_

_“Stranger than us, I’d wager.” _

_Crowley glanced at him, leaned in and kissed him. “Nothing’s strange than us, angel. Don’t you forget it.”_

Aziraphale shook his head, brushed off the memory. He felt Crowley’s lips on him the way some humans felt the ghost of a missing limb. It teased him, took his breath away. But he couldn’t lose focus down here. Not when he was starting to finally feel Crowley’s essence. It had a sharpness to it, a distinct set of protrusions that settled nicely against all the places Aziraphale turned in.

They were _made_ for one another. He’d wondered more than once if it’d been planned that way, or if their belonging together was some kind of accident. The Almighty didn’t make mistakes, that he’d learned very early. But She couldn’t have seen this. There was no way She could have foreseen one of her angels descended the stairwells of hell, tucking in tight against the walls to avoid the creatures that lumbered to the levels above, all to save one demon.

There was no way in...well.

_Hell._

Was there?

* * *

“_Lord Beelzebub_.”

Aziraphale was several levels down by now. He hadn’t seen anyone he recognized, but the sudden appearance of Beelzebub was, strangely, a relief.

“Angel.”

Heads turned. Creatures howled. Beelzebub silenced them.

“Where is he?”

“Fun trip, principality?”

“Please, just tell me. They’ve released—”

“They haven’t. They’re waiting for you to get back. Smart move, really. You probably won’t make it.”

“But I—”

Beelzebub was moving on. Waving a hand at him. “Keep walking, angel. You’re nowhere close, but the journey isn’t far. That help?”

“No!” he shouted. “Not at all!” Aziraphale huffed at their retreating back, then pressed onward.

* * *

_“Oh, my dear. Just _look_ at you.”_

_“Hng. Move, angel. _Move._” _

_“I will. I will. Just let me hold you like this. Let me feel you.”_

_Crowley gasped and his back arched and he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, smeared his lips on his cheek. “Tell me you love me.”_

_“I love you.”_

_“That you won’t leave me.”_

_“Never. Crowley, I’ll never.”_

_Crowley drew back, held Aziraphale’s face in his hands. Aziraphale moaned, thrusting in deeper. Crowley’s head fell back and he cried out, coming quite suddenly. “Fuck. _Fuck_,” he muttered. _

_Aziraphale kept moving. “Tell me the same.”_

_“What?” Crowley was dazed, fucked out and satisfied. He grinned. “Whassat?”_

_“Tell _me_ the same,” Aziraphale said, and fucked him, _hard._ Crowley howled. “That you won’t leave me. That you’ll stay with me.”_

_“Six thousand years, you and me. And we gotta make those promises.”_

_Aziraphale laughed. “You asked first. You said—”_

_Crowley cut him off, tongue in his mouth, kissing him wet and sloppy. They were a mess, now, and when Crowley spoke, he sounded _broken.

_“I will never leave you. I tried. So many times, and each time I—” He moaned. “I couldn’t. They’d have to drag me away from you, angel. Because you’re mine. And I’m not going anywhere.”_

Aziraphale jerked awake.

He was losing track of time, and he’d fallen asleep in one of the stairwells. No one touched him. He was sweating, which wasn’t normal. He could taste ozone, sharp and burning, on his tongue, and he was uncomfortably hard. That was easy enough to will away, and probably would have been taken care of quickly enough by the foul stench pervading this level. Aziraphale stood on shaky legs and kept moving.

What was happening in their little village right now? Was it Sunday already? Would he be missed at the afternoon service? Would Mrs. Lewis next door come calling when she noticed they were there, or that Crowley had left his gardening tools abandoned in the yard? Had he left the doors open, would people see?

Was their cottage warm and quiet in their absence? Did it miss them?

Crowley’s essence faded in and out, but Aziraphale blamed the ache he felt all over. He hated this place, hated it with every step he took.

_Could just turn back,_ a voice said. A smooth, _tempting_ voice. A voice that reminded him of a morning —

“...Lucifer.”

_Could turn around, angel. Go back to looking at these poor souls. They need someone like you. _

“I won’t.”

_You won’t like what you find. And I wonder, will it be as good as you remember?_

Unbidden, the image of Crowley stretched out on the beach, flipping through a magazine, bored with the pictures and even more so with the articles. His freckles popping out under the sun, the human vessel he’d chosen millennia ago reacting subtly to the heat.

“Angel,” he said, but his voice was tinged with hellfire. _Wrong memory. Wrong thought. Wrong words. Wrong feeling. _

“No,” Aziraphale said, and the memory dissolved.

_No? You don’t like it? Not...interesting enough for you?_

“I’m not turning back.”

The sound of wicked panting, of Crowley’s moans and pleas filled his head. _Touch me there. Touch me again, oh fuck, oh please. Tell me you love me, tell me you won’t leave, promise me, fuck me, angel, fuck me_ —

“Stop it,” Aziraphale said. “Get out of my head.”

_Not strong enough. Little principality. Little angel. Don’t you miss Her? Don’t you want to go home?_

“I don’t,” Aziraphale said. He pushed on. The voice stopped.

Should have expected this. Should have known. He couldn’t let doubt creepin, even though he’d been doubting himself since he’d walked down here. What if Crowley wasn’t there? What if he’d been destroyed? What if he never found him? What if he lost the coin and Hell consumed him?

* * *

What if Crowey didn’t _want him._

_But of course he does._

“No, not _you_.” Aziraphale had been allowing his doubts to enter his mind before he struck them down. A good smiting to his insecurities. Lucifer hadn’t spoken to him for some time, but his voice came through again, a squall among the silence of this particular level of hell. Things here were cold.

_Can’t you feel him in your arms? Can’t you remember what he feels like inside you?_

“You don’t know anything.”

_Greedy little angel. You’ve let him tempt you, haven’t you? You’ve let yourself succumb to pleasure._

“I love him.”

_Of course you do. But isn’t love just another indulgence? Isn’t love just another word for lust?_

Aziraphale didn’t speak. If he gave him nothing, Lucifer would have nothing. He’d have —

_“I don’t know why I’ve even bothered.”_

_“Crowley, please. I’m not trying to say it’s a terrible idea, but this city—”_

_“Fuck this city, angel. It’s just a place! A place we live. And we could live _anywhere!_ Go to Greece, or Spain, or fucking...fucking Antarctica!”_

_Aziraphale scowled. “You’re being hyperbolic.”_

_“I’m_ being_ serious.” Crowley took his hands. “I want to be with you, and I want to be with you somewhere...somewhere different from here. Anywhere.” _

_But Aziraphale wasn’t sure. _

_He wasn’t sure of anything._

“But I _became_ sure,” he muttered. “I came around to the idea. What’s the point of this?”

_You’ve always had doubts, angel. Why fight it?_

“Because. _Because_.”

_Not a good reason, little cherub. She’d be disappointed. I thought you _loved_ him._

Aziraphale shivered. He was so cold. _So_ cold.

* * *

_I’m waiting._

“Hm?” Aziraphale opened his eyes. There was frost on his lashes. He blinked it away. He’d fallen asleep again.

_You have doubts._

“I don’t,” he said weakly.

_You do. All angels have doubts. It’s reaching and rattling them the right way, that’s the key. It’s what I did to him. _

“He didn’t…”

_Oh, but he did. He fell and he fell so beautifully. What a dive, angel. What a dive! _

“I don’t have doubts. I—”

_Let me carry you the rest of the way, Aziraphale. Let me help you._

Aziraphale cried out. Crowley’s essence was stabbing through him. It knocked him down again and he pushed himself up on trembling arms and legs.

“I…”

_That’s it._

“I do…”

_Say it, angel. Say it!_

“I do have doubts,” he said, and his elbows buckled.

_Of course you do. But I can have answers. I have a path, I can help _—

“I have doubts,” Aziraphale said, pushing himself onto his feet. “But I have never doubted him.” Silence. “Six thousand years, and I never doubted what he was, what he meant. We disagreed, that was natural. But what we were? To one another? I didn’t doubt. And when I came close, I regretted it.” He reached into his pocket and gripped the coin. She was still there. She’d wanted him to do this, but more than that —

Crowley was very close. And Aziraphale was going to him.

“I’ve doubted so many things,” he said. “But he’s the only constant I’ve ever known. That’s why you can’t have me. And that’s why he isn’t yours anymore.”

_He will be._

“No,” Aziraphale said, and headed toward the next stairwell. “He won’t.”

* * *

_“I’ll go anywhere with you, Crowley.”_

_“It’s not stupid?”_

_“No. It’s brilliant.”_

_Crowley laughed, relieved. “Glad to hear it. Because I bought the house already.”_

_Aziraphale pulled back, his heart swelling with fondness. “Oh, _Crowley._” _

_“Eh, it was a good deal. Do you like idyllic villages, angel? I know I do.”_

_“Yes, my dear. I certainly do.”_

* * *

The hallway stretched endlessly before him, and it was lined with numbered doors. Aziraphale could sense demons here, behind each door. Demons in torment.

Demons in solitary confinement.

“Crowley…”

_His_ demon was behind one of them, but there was no way to see inside. Aziraphale’s senses were dulled with cold and ache. He could feel Crowley, but which door to open? Which door was his?

He needed to tune everything else out. There was screaming, somewhere, but that could be disregarded. Aziraphale closed his eyes, held his hands at his sides, and _felt._

Crowley was _his._ They belonged together. They were two halves of one creature. The Almighty had put them on earth together. Everything a part of her Ineffable Plan.

_I know you_, he thought, _and so I will find you. _

Aziraphale began to walk, thinking of mornings in the garden and afternoons in bed. Days on the beach and in the kitchen. When they’d lived with the Dowlings they spent their days off in galleries and theatres, trading notes, pleased with their progress. Things had really changed, then. Aziraphale had felt _something_ after the bombing, something different and _good_, but it didn’t strike him until later precisely what it was.

Now, of course, it was so obvious. Now, they were in love.

_There._ One door called to him. That one. That one was where he’d find Crowley.

He put his hand on the door knob — ice cold, but unlocked. He turned it and it swung in and away from him, slamming along the opposite wall. Aziraphale felt a rush of cold air hit him, and he nearly stepped back, but —

Crowley needed him. And he needed Crowley. He wasn’t too ashamed to admit that.

When he stepped in, the door shut behind him. Aziraphale didn’t need to try it to know it was locked now. That was alright. The Almighty had willed this, he told himself. She had wanted him to do this.

As he made his way into the room, its enormity struck him. A great chasm of a thing, high ceilings that stretched up, into a poor rendition of the _Duomo._ They’d spent a summer in Florence, once, working at odds with one another, but enjoying the artistry. Perhaps Crowley had been thinking that, if this was a place of his own design.

And it did seem to be that. There was a building in the center of the room, too run down for Aziraphale to recognize immediately, but when he realized, he gasped — it was their cottage. Falling apart, yes, but their cottage all the same.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale began to walk closer, recognizing the windows, the garden wall, the little _gate_ —

The apple tree, limbs fall apart, fruit scattered on the ground.

What had become of —

“_Move another step, and I’ll kill you._”

Aziraphale froze. He hadn’t even noticed, he was too busy mourning his _home_ —

“Crowley.”

“I won’t ask how you know my name, I assume you’re just another one of _his._”

Aziraphale turned around, and he nearly fell to his knees and sobbed.

It was _him. _It was his demon, his _Crowley_, and he stared at Aziraphale with unknowing eyes, terrible and yellow in the strange light that spilled in from the cracks in the domed ceiling. Where did it come from, he wondered. Like light that filtered to the bottom of the sea.

Crowley stepped closer. “So? What will it be this time? Come to burn it all down again? That didn’t work, remember?”

“...No. No, Crowley, it’s _me_.”

“Don’t pull that with me. He tried it once before.”

“Crowley, it’s _Aziraphale._ It’s me, I’m your—”

Crowley brushed past him and into the garden. “No idea who that is,” he said. “You can let yourself out whenever you’re through with me. I need to water the vines.”

Aziraphale followed him. “Crowley listen, you—” He stopped. “Oh. Oh, my love. Your _plants._”

The garden was a disaster. Vines and thorny bushes were planted haphazardly in the earth, and nothing grew.

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley glanced at him. “Your lot never asks questions. He must be trying something new.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured. “He must be.”

Crowley poured foul smelling, brown water from a watering can. “Things don’t grow here. I think he’s made sure of that.”

“And your...your house. Was it always this way?”

Crowley turned, looking at the roof caving in. “...No. When I first got here, it was...it was just like before. But this place rots everything. He thinks he’ll break me. He thinks I’ll beg for him to take me back, but—” The watering can should have been empty by now. Instead, more leaf rot and filthy water poured from it. “He can’t. He won’t.”

“And why?”

“Because I’ve got—” Crowley stopped. “I’ve...I’ve got a…” He frowned. Set down the watering can. “...It’s so strange,” he murmured. “I can get so close to it, so _close_ to what it is, but I can never…” He looked at Aziraphale. “Maybe you know.”

“Maybe I do.” Aziraphale moved toward the cottage.The front door was gone, now, so he stepped inside. “Did you live here alone?”

Crowley followed him, a safe distance behind. “I can’t remember.”

“Seems like an awfully big place to be alone in,” Aziraphale said. “Seems like you might want to share it with someone.”

Their sofa was rotting. Crowley came and put his hands on the back of it.

“No,” he said. “I’ve always been alone.”

“Really? Someone as clever as you? Oh, I find that hard to believe.”

There was a beat. Crowley _lunged_ for him, and Aziraphale let it happen. “_What do you know?_” Crowley snarled. “_Tell me!_”

“I know that you are loved. I know that someone, someone _you _wouldn’t expect, wants you _home._ Wants you _safe._”

“Who? Because it’s _here_,” Crowley said, and his voice was trembling, his hands were shaking. He let go of Aziraphale and dropped to his knees, _sobbing._ “It’s right _here_,” he said, “and I can’t touch it. I can’t feel it. I _can’t remember!_”

Aziraphale knelt beside him. “My dear, look at me.” Crowley did. “I know it’s there. I know you and I are going to be able to find this _together_, but you...you have to trust me.”

“I don’t _know you_,” Crowley said.

“But you do! You and I, we know one another better than anyone’s _ever _known us.”

“How? How can we?”

“Six thousand years ago,” Aziraphale murmured, and took Crowley’s face in his hands, “you climbed up onto the wall beside me and I shielded you from the rain. I didn’t even think, I didn’t ask.”

“...Rain.”

“Yes. Yes, my love, the rain.”

“You...you and I—”

“_Us._ Our garden, the place we met.” Crowley gripped Aziraphale’s wrists in his hands.

“I…”

“_Please._ Let me help you remember,” Aziraphale said, and leaned in close.

Their lips touched. Crowley snarled and pulled away.

“_Get out!_ Get out, and you can _tell him._ Tell him that I...that someone’s...someone is _coming_ for me.” He gripped the counter, heaving with the effort of screaming.

“Crowley, it’s _me._ I’m the one who’s come for you, I’m the one you’ve been waiting on.”

“_Ages_,” Crowley murmured. “I’ve been waiting for _so long_.”

“I know. My love, I _know._ But I came as soon as I could. I came for you. It was…” Aziraphale stopped.

He...he couldn’t remember. He’d left their cottage, but what day had it been? What time? Months ago? _Days?_

And he’d gone to Heaven to talk to...to talk —

“It’s this place,” Crowley croaked. “It takes and _takes._ He wants you empty, so he make you want he wants. I’ve been fighting, but I...I don’t know how much I’ve got left,” he said, with a laugh. “What are you, if you’re not one of his.”

“An angel,” Aziraphale said, but he didn’t know if he believed it anymore. He didn’t feel warm, didn’t feel love. Didn’t he have...something. Something that —

“...Angel,” Crowley murmured.

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

Crowley reached out to touch his arm, then drew back. “You...should go. Tell him to try harder, next time.”

Aziraphale stared. Lucifer was trying to make Crowley into something different. To take what the last six thousand years had made him and undo it.

And he _couldn’t._ Crowley had been brought back to Hell and he’d carried everything he was with him — kicking and _screaming_.

Aziraphale _laughed_. He laughed and he laughed and maybe it was the rapidly encroaching _madness_ — but it was _funny. _

“Of course he can’t break you. Even without your memories, you’re _impossible_ to deal with, aren’t you? Lucifer must be pulling his _horns _out, eh?” Crowley glanced at him. “I mean, look at you! He drags you to _Hell_ and the first thing you do is try to grow bloody _flowers._ You impossible thing. You’re just…_ineffable._”

The word cracked between them. Crowley froze. Aziraphale looked around.

“It’s a terrible place. All that imagination, and you can only picture it all falling apart. We argued about the sofa for three days and look what you’ve done to it. You’re an absolutely _feral_ decorator, do you know that? We have a mug that says _World’s Best Gran._ You drink out of it every morning.” Aziraphale closed his eyes.

He was so _cold._ And things...things were slipping, now.

He could leave. If he wanted to leave, he had a feeling the Almighty would carry him home.

But he wasn’t leaving Crowley here alone. And if they had to live in this place, unknown to one another, until Lucifer destroyed them both — then so be it.

“...What else?”

Aziraphale opened his eyes. Crowley was close, and he reached out with a trembling hand to fix Aziraphale’s collar. He’d stopped wearing the bow ties months ago — Crowley loved his neck, and he was looking at it now like he _knew that._

“What?”

“What...what else do I do? Do _we_ do?”

Did he remember? His eyes still didn’t focus quite right, but he was watching.

Aziraphale took a steadying breath. If these were his last moments of clarity — at least they were finally together.

“You shout at your plants. Every day, you give them a stern talking to. You’ve got the most beautiful garden in the world.”

“You torture the local boys, they all think you’re a cult leader and you haven’t done a single thing to make sure they stop thinking that.”

“And you love the ocean. You love the sound of it, we can hear it from the bedroom. You insist on leaving the window open so we can listen while we...while we make love.”

Crowley’s hands slipped into his. Aziraphale was freezing.

“You let me read to you, even though you can’t stand half of what I like. We watch terrible movies together, and I let you listen to whatever music you want, but you always know what I’d rather hear.”

“You cook for me, sometimes.You’ve gotten quite good at it.”

“_Angel._”

Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley leaned in, pressing their foreheads together. “And you _love_ me,” Aziraphale said. “No matter how ridiculous I am, you _love me._”

Crowley kissed him, and the last bit of warmth drained from Aziraphale’s essence.

He looked into eyes he didn’t know.

“Who…”

“_Aziraphale._ Angel, look at me. _Look at me._”

“Where am I? What is this place?” He slumped forward, shivering. Oh, he was _cold._ He was so _cold_, and he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here.

Someone was holding him. Someone was saying his name. Someone was screaming at the Heavens, pleading to bring them home, bring them back, make this _right._

Aziraphale couldn’t stand, and the two of them, whoever he was, collapsed together.

“I’ve got you. _I’ve got you._”

“I’ll just...rest,” Aziraphale murmured. He was cold and he was tired.

And he needed to sleep.

* * *

_Come on, angel. Come back to me._

Aziraphale shifted. He wasn’t cold.

_Open your eyes, you idiot. Look at me, let me know you’re okay._

Aziraphale groaned. Opened his eyes.

Yellow. Everything was...yellow.

“...Crowley.”

“Yeah.” Crowley pulled him into his arms.

“_Crowley._”

“I’m here, angel. I’m here.”

Aziraphale gasped and gripped his shoulders, burying his face in Crowley’s neck and laughing. “Oh, my dear. My _dear._”

“You went all the way to Hell for me. I can’t believe you. I can’t _believe_ you.

“Well.” Aziraphale pulled back and smiled, cupping his cheek. “There’s a bit of a precedent, isn’t there?”

Crowley laughed, and they finally kissed, careful and slow.

When they pulled back, Aziraphale looked around. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Heaven,” Crowley said. “Some part of it.”

“Oh. Oh, I was hoping...hoping we could go home.”

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. But we’re together, so it can’t...it can’t be that bad.”

Aziraphale sighed. He felt so _tired_, still. He leaned on Crowley and closed his eyes.

“No,” he said. “I’m sure it can’t.”

* * *

There was too much Hell in Aziraphale for him to stay in Heaven, and Heaven was no place for a demon.

Aziraphale was touched by the Almighty once, when he was first created, and then She never laid her hands on him again.

She did now, and he felt warmer than before, Crowley’s hand clutched in his.

She looked so..._human_, standing in front of them, watering the plants of Eden.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with the two of you,” She said, but she didn’t _sound_ like She was at her wit’s end. “One of you, always asking questions. The other one, can’t take a hint, even from Hell.” She sighed, turning to face them and leaning against the apple tree. “You’re a lot of work, you know.”

“Yes,” Crowley drawled. “How terrible for you.”

“_Crowley._”

“No, he’s right. I’ve been...well. I won’t go into that. But I can’t let either of you remain what you are. You’ve taken on too much of one another.”

It was true. Aziraphale did not feel as connected to the host as before, and Crowley’s eyes, while still serpentine, were simply not as bright.

They were becoming something new.

“I could renew the holiness in both of you, but it would require I take your memories. It’d be too strong a process, and I don’t think either of you would really like that.”

“I’d find him,” Crowley said, stepping closer. “You could do whatever you like, but I’d—”

“Hush,” She said, and Crowley went quiet. “Never listening. Always talking. I only have another option.” She reached up, plucking two apples from the branch above her head. “It’s true, I know you’d probably wind up bucking that plan, too. I can see into your futures. There is no world, no reality you exist in where you don’t seek each other out. _Soulmates_, I think humans call it.

“So that’s what I propose. I return you to Earth, but as humans. You live your lives however you see fit, and, eventually, you find one each other again.”

“_Separate_ us?” Aziraphale asked. “You...you think that—”

“There is no way I can return you to Earth as you are. You’re creatures unknown to me, now. And I can’t take anymore chances.” She looked between them. “It’s one or the other.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “My dear…”

“We’re..._born again._ On Earth.”

“Yes.”

“As...humans. Human _children._”

“Mmhm.”

“Can’t we just—”

“No,” She said. “You can’t.”

Crowley sighed. He looked at Aziraphale, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “I love you. You know that.”

“I know that.”

“And it doesn’t matter what we are, or _where_—”

Aziraphale kissed him. “I will find you.”

Crowley nodded. “I will _find you._”

“Then it’s settled.” She held out the apples.

Aziraphale took them, and handed one to Crowley.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.

Crowley looked at the rich, red skin. “...How will we find each other?” he asked.

Aziraphale smiled. He took Crowley’s apple as he leaned in and kissed him. “I found you in Hell,” he said, before drawing back, and pressing the apple to Crowley’s lips. “You don’t think I could find you in London?”

* * *

_ **some years later, in a bookshop in london — the first day of the rest of their lives** _

“Look, I _understand_ you think you should have a discount, but I’m quite certain Mr. Thompson told you the book would be full price!”

“Now look here—”

“Sir, there is _no reason_ for you to shout—”

“Something the matter?”

Aziraphale, named for an angel no one could remember, looked up. “_Nothing_ is the matter, Mr. James was just...he was just...leaving.”

Mr. James was _not_ leaving, but he was suddenly caught in the middle of a very intense bout of eye contact, and the entire matter made him so uncomfortable, he abandoned his first edition Keats and fled the shop.

Aziraphale swallowed. “...Hello.”

“Hi.”

“I’ve, um. I’ve never seen you in here before.”

“S’just a bookshop,” the man said. “You remember everyone who comes in?”

“Yes, actually. I do. I’m Aziraphale.” He stuck out his hand.

“Anthony.”

“_Anthony._”

“Ah, well. I mean...I mean it’s _Crowley_, to whoever’s asking. But, um. In _polite_ company, it’s Anthony.”

Aziraphale looked him up and down. He doubted _Anthony_ had kept polite company a single day in his life.

And he wasn’t about to be the first.

“Well. We have a really love new selection of poetry, if you’re interested.”

Crowley looked him up and down, and Aziraphale felt absolutely _wild_.

“Might be,” he said, and grinned.

* * *

In the stacks their hands met. Aziraphale was _overwhelmed_ with a feeling, a _sensation_ of understanding, that he couldn’t quite explain.

“Are you sure I don’t...I don’t _know_ you?” he asked. Crowley was very close. Aziraphale could smell his cologne — a tinge of burning and citrus — and he wanted to taste it.

“You don’t,” Crowley said. “But I really fucking want you to.”

* * *

_The endless string of summer storms that led me to today   
Began one afternoon with you, long ago and far away_

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw  
title from 1 John 4:16, lyrics from the mountain goats song, _1 John 4:16_


End file.
